‘I wish,’ I whisper through clenched teeth. ‘Smile for the camera.’
I look in Giles’ direction, and then I spot you, standing not too far from him. You look incredible. Like a movie star. The midnight-blue suit – offset by a crisp white shirt and dark blue tie – really sits well with your tanned complexion. You’ve recently had a haircut, and I can tell there’s a smattering of gel keeping it perfectly in place, and as it’s a sunny day, you’re wearing sunglasses. You look hot, and you make me hot. Why can’t Greg be enough? Why can’t I get past this shallow adolescent fantasy of you? Why, when I see you, do you have this effect on me? I’m not a teenager, for pity’s sake; it’s laughable. Even so, it’s there, this irresistible urge, and it’s both frustrating and exhilarating.
We’ve only had sex twice, but it could easily have been more often. The first time was in your house, when your wife was away, and I’d popped round to get something I’d left behind on another occasion. You took me on your desk in your study, my legs wrapped around your waist after you stripped off my panties and nearly brought me to orgasm with your tongue. You made me feel like the star of some X-rated movie, and when I finally left, I found myself wanting more.
The second time was in some back alley in the City. I felt so filthy afterwards, no better than a prostitute, but that was what had made it so hot, so exciting. It’s the thrill of it. You love that, like me. It’s addictive. Seductive. Makes me feel euphoric. I felt terrible for cheating on Greg, and when I went home to him and he asked me how my day had been, commenting that I looked tired, a bit flushed – was I coming down with something? Could he get me a glass of wine? Run me a bath – I felt even worse. I couldn’t face him, and so I said yes, a bath would be nice, thanks, just so I could get away from him and stop feeling so guilty. But when I got in it, I thought of you and started rubbing myself, imagining it was your hands all over me.
I can’t seem to get enough of you, and I hate myself for it. I wish we’d never acted on the attraction we’d felt for so long, because once you take a bite of the apple, you want more.
‘Chrissy, smile.’ Giles’ chirpy voice brings me back to the here and now, and I perform for the cameras once again.
It’s gone 2 p.m. and I hear my stomach groan. I’ve been starving myself for six months. I hate dieting. It’s not in my nature, I love food too much. But the dress I chose – after a month of shopping around London with Janine – is not forgiving even to an ounce of flesh, particularly around the arms and back. So aside from my hen weekend, it’s been months of cutting out carbs, virtually no alcohol, plenty of protein, veg and water, and regular, punishing gym workouts. Something I also hate because, quite frankly, I can think of better things to do with my spare time than sweat in a stinky gym with a bunch of narcissists. Like getting some sleep or a manicure. I’ve had lots of those too, not to mention regular facials and deep-tissue massages. It’s paid off, though, I have to say, because I look a million dollars. My strapless dress, lace all over, is close-fitting down to my knees where it fans out in a spectacular fishtail. My bodice is fastened with a multitude of fiddly buttons running up the back, so tight I can scarcely breathe. Like a true hypocrite, I wore a veil, front and back, but after the ceremony – during which I promised to love, cherish and be faithful to Greg for as long as we both shall live – I only kept the back veil on, fastened with a clip into my hair which is arranged in an elegant chignon, and further accessorized with a silver diamanté tiara.
I saw the look on Greg’s face as I walked down the aisle of the same church I was baptised in. It was the same look he gave me the first time we locked eyes. A look of lust, love and devotion.
How lucky am I?
From the church, we and our guests moved on to the reception venue, one of Surrey’s most impressive country estate hotels. The grounds are breathtaking, while the house itself dates back to the seventeenth century, with an attractive mix of original features and twentieth-century luxury. It’s where Greg took me to celebrate our first anniversary of being together, a place I instantly fell in love with and knew, the moment I said yes to Greg’s marriage proposal, was where I wanted to celebrate our day.
We’re standing in front of a striking water feature. The weather is perfect. Twenty-two degrees, not too hot, with cloudy and sunny intervals and no wind. A bride couldn’t hope for a better day. I was offered a glass of champagne when we first pulled up to the hotel in our classic royal blue Bentley. Having been practically teetotal and on a near-starvation diet for the last six months, it’s made me feel rather dizzy, and what I really need is something to eat, but the fizz has made my bodice feel even tighter, and I’m worried I won’t be able to breathe if my stomach expands even a few millimetres more.
Finally, the guests start to disappear back in the direction of the main house, and a member of staff asks us to follow him that way as the wedding breakfast will shortly be served. Janine asks if I’m OK as we watch our guests walk off.
‘Yes, just a tad woozy. The champagne’s gone to my head. Guess it’s to be expected after six months of hardly any booze to speak of.’
She eyes me with concern. Looks really lovely today. Her dress is a tasteful gold, straight, with spaghetti straps and an elegant empire line. Like me, she made a conscious effort to lose weight for my big day, having been on the plump side ever since I’ve known her. Although, admittedly, she did lose a few pounds for her own wedding. She has light brown shoulder-length hair, hazel eyes, and what I can only describe as a warm, friendly face. She’s not beautiful like me, something she’s said to my face on numerous occasions, and which makes me feel decidedly awkward and yet, rather strangely, doesn’t seem to bother her. It’s almost as if she enjoys having a more glamorous friend, not to mention a glamorous friend who genuinely likes her.
After we became friends at uni, she told me she was never popular at school, never chosen for plays or sports teams or suchlike, that the pretty girls would deliberately ignore her. So I suppose she and I becoming best friends came as something of a surprise to her. It’s something she’s grateful for. As am I.
I would never say this to her face, but I’m secretly glad she’s not exceptionally pretty or popular. It would be so tiring having to keep up with someone like that. The same is true of Miranda. If she were a stunner, I’d see her as more of a threat to my relationship with Greg, even though they are no longer together and she’s with someone else. It makes life so much simpler. And, selfishly, better for me.
Although I have several close female friends who are here today, including Miranda, I only wanted Janine for my bridesmaid because she’s my oldest friend. There’s only one thing I can’t tell her. But keeping it from her is nearly killing me. Just as it’s nearly killing me keeping it from Miranda. I mean, Miranda’s tried so hard to be my friend – letting me into her sad childhood – yet here I am concealing something so huge from her. I feel like I’m betraying our friendship, lying to her face, but I can’t bear for her to hate me, for all the good work to be undone. I also can’t bear for you and I to stop.
I briefly considered asking Miranda to be a bridesmaid. But then thought better of it. Just because it might have been a bit awkward, what with her and Greg having dated. I didn’t want her to think I was rubbing her face in it, despite the fact that they broke up a long time ago and she’s been married for two months now. I told her I’d thought about it, though. I didn’t want her to think I hadn’t considered her and therefore get her back up. But she hadn’t seemed bothered. Even though, every so often – on my hen do, for example – when Janine and I got talking about our dress fittings and general wedding-related stuff, it was pretty obvious she wanted us to shift away from that particular topic. Like it was getting on her nerves. She seems fine today, though. Laughing and joking with her new husband. I was relieved when she started dating again because it took the heat off me, even though I thought her choice slightly odd; the complete opposite to Greg. But perhaps that was the point.
I’ve told Greg repeatedly that he needs to be happy for Miranda, pleased that she’s found someone else to love. But he can’t seem to be at peace with her choice, and that unsettles me.
Janine is seated at the top table with me, Greg, Greg’s parents, my parents, and the best man, Tom, Greg’s oldest school friend. I smile at Janine, reassure her again that I’m fine. She looks so happy, and I only wish I could be as content as her, in the arms of the man she loves with all her heart. Completely and unconditionally, no strings attached.
Just then, Greg comes up and grabs me by the waist. ‘Ready, Mrs Donovan?’ He pulls me to him, kisses me on the lips. Then breaks away and smiles. I smile back.
‘Ready,’ I say.
* * *
‘To the happy couple!’
Tom has just delivered the best man’s speech. As expected, he suitably embarrassed Greg, but without too many cringeworthy moments or awkward silences. He was genuinely funny, drawing raucous laughter all round. Even Miranda was in fits. Which relieved me somewhat, because I couldn’t help but notice her pinched expression when Greg was talking about me. Although maybe I’m overthinking things. Perhaps because of my own guilty conscience.
I look again at the sea of faces – happy, smiling and flushed with booze. And as I do, I see you. Momentarily, we lock eyes; not so long as to draw attention to ourselves and arouse suspicion, but long enough for us to share a mutual understanding. And at this point, I cannot resist. Can’t help myself. I know it’s wrong, and I’m not thinking straight with all the alcohol in my system, but I’ll go crazy, literally crazy, if I don’t get a moment alone with you. And I can tell you’re thinking the same thing.
‘Darling,’ I lean to my left and say into Greg’s ear, ‘I need the loo.’
He looks at me lovingly. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes,’ I assure him, ‘just had a bit too much liquid, and now I’m bursting. I may be some time, owing to this dress.’ I chuckle lightly, and he chuckles too. I am such a bad person. A liar and a cheat, and I don’t deserve him. I deserve to be struck down by God and sent to hell.
I get up, and make sure I tell everyone quite loudly that I’m off to the ladies’.
‘Need any help?’ Janine offers.
I bend down and whisper another lie into her ear. ‘Bit of a dicky tummy. I’m going to my room for some privacy. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
Then I smile and kiss her tenderly on the top of her head, despite feeling like a total charlatan inside. Janine still looks concerned and again offers to go with me, but I insist that I am fine and will get word to her should I need her.
As I leave the room, I make eye contact with you. You hold my gaze, you understand, and I can’t get out of there fast enough. Instead of heading for the ladies’ downstairs, I creep up the sweeping staircase to the bedrooms. Greg and I have a suite for the night. A member of staff passes me en route, and I give him some excuse about needing to get something from my room. Not that he cares. It’s just my guilt complex talking.
Upstairs, I remove the room key from my purse and insert it into the lock. Again, my urgency is so great, I can’t turn it fast enough, and my hands are literally shaking with fear and excitement. I know what I’m about to do is immoral, of course I do, but it’s like I’m some junkie needing her hit.
I’m in, and I wait, but not too long. Within a minute, there’s a knock on the door. I go to open it, but before I can even utter a word, you’re pushing me inside and closing the door behind you, which you lock. You don’t say a word. I say something meaningless about this being wrong, but what’s the fucking point, I’m going to do it anyway. You spin me round roughly, virtually push my face against the wall, hoist my arms above my head and trap them there with your left hand. And then you kiss the side of my neck and I am tingling all over with desire as you place your free hand under my dress and allow it to leisurely make its way up my thigh, until you reach the crotch of my satin thong, which you caress gently, sensually, until the material is wet, and then you suddenly break away. A cruel and delicious move. You are wicked, toying with me, whipping me into a frenzy, and I almost can’t bear it. But then you fall to your knees and this time you pull my thong down to my ankles and your head is under my dress as I instinctively part my legs allowing your tongue easy access flicking left and right until I am ready to come, but somehow I manage not to because I want you to be fully inside me, and we don’t have time for both. You emerge from under my dress, rise up and I can feel the hardness of you pressing into my buttocks. And then slowly, one by one, you undo the buttons on my corset, a relief in itself. But I hardly notice that at all; all I want is for you to be inside me. It’s so dangerous – so indisputably bad – but that’s what makes it so good, so irresistible. And then my dress is on the floor, and your hands are cupping my breasts, making my nipples erect, as you thrust yourself inside me – and what comes next must remain a secret forever.
Chapter Twenty
Christine
Now
‘It’s good of you to see me again at such short notice.’
I’m back on Dr Cousins’ couch. It’s Saturday afternoon, the day after I was discharged from hospital. I feel terrible, encroaching on her weekend, but the note is playing on my mind and I simply can’t wait until Monday to see her. The note, along with Daniel’s announcement that he’s engaged, although surely that’s something I should feel happy about rather than worried? I guess it all seems a bit hasty. After all, neither Greg nor I have met the girl and, as I understand things, they’ve not been dating long.
I can’t sleep or think clearly. Last night, I woke up in a cold sweat, panicky and disorientated. All I could see was your face, Heidi, and you kept saying the same thing, over and over: Why did you abandon me? Why did you leave me to a stranger?
I woke poor Greg. Bless him, he was very understanding as I sat up, panting. He admitted he hasn’t been sleeping well either. He stroked my back, fetched me some water, tried to get me to relax. After I drank the water, he made me lie down again, then shushed me to sleep like a baby, smoothing my hair as he did so. Apart from the kiss on my head when he left for work yesterday, it was the most loving he’s been with me in what seems like forever, and it felt wonderful. But I was glad my back was facing him so that he couldn’t see the tears pouring down my cheeks.
This morning, while Greg was in the shower, I rang Miranda and told her about my bad night, about seeing you in my dreams. I didn’t want to bother Janine again. I know she’s had her hands tied with Sarah who’s been under the cosh at work. Plus, I thought it might be good to get someone else’s perspective. Janine’s only recently been through a traumatic time herself, while Miranda, as far as I know, has a stable enough relationship with Duncan, and always seems reasonably together. I could tell from her voice that she was worried about Greg, though. I know she’s my friend, but I’m also under no illusions – despite what Greg might think – that if he and I were to divorce and she had to choose between us, she’d choose him. Even so, I’m certain she’d never do anything deliberately malicious to hurt me, because she’d be too afraid of Greg’s reaction were he to find out. The fact that she made such an effort with me proves how much she’d rather have him in her life as a friend than not at all. And so, when I rang to tell her about my dreams, I trusted her to give me a sensible response. And she did. She immediately suggested I ring Dr Cousins and ask if she could fit me in today.
‘It’ll do you good to talk to someone objective. It’ll help clear your head, get a grip on things.’
‘I can’t call her on a Saturday,’ I said. ‘That would be overstepping the mark.’
‘Sure you can,’ Miranda assured me. ‘I know Janine did. She told me so. Told me Dr Cousins doesn’t seem so concerned about strict rules. She cares deeply for her patients, treats them like family.’
Miranda’s always been a voice of reason, and because of this I need to trust her judgement. So, I put my misgivings to one side and called Dr Cousins. Naturally,
she sounded surprised to hear from me, but then, when I explained what had happened, she was so kind, so understanding, I felt less guilty and she said of course we could bring our meeting forward, and how did 2 p.m. sound?
* * *
Dr Cousins says, ‘Of course, don’t mention it. Janine must have told you that I don’t believe in strict rules and guidelines. People don’t work like that – life doesn’t work like that – so why should psychiatrists?’
She’s quite something. She makes so much sense. Makes me feel less guilty for imposing on her weekend time, and I instantly feel the tension inside me ebb away. When I first stepped into her hallway, I was hit by the smell of eggs, toast and coffee. It seemed she’d enjoyed a late breakfast, and I wondered if she’d had a man here with her, despite it being none of my business. She’s so attractive and smart, she must have men knocking down her door. In fact, although it may sound arrogant, she reminds me of me when I was her age. Although I’m guessing her profession might put some men off. I mean, men are generally so bad at talking about their emotions, some might feel intimidated and steer clear.
Evidently, I need to work on my poker face, because she read my mind, and explained with a smile, ‘Only just got rid of my boyfriend. We had a bit of a late night, and breakfast sort of turned into brunch.’
I felt my cheeks burn at being caught out, but then I smiled, remembering my younger, carefree self. No major responsibilities, full of youthful optimism.
‘He’s gone to watch Spurs with a mate this afternoon,’ Dr Cousins elaborated.
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘just like my son. Also a Spurs fan.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Well, I imagine there are a lot of them out there. My father wasn’t into football, he was more of a cricket man.’
‘Each to their own I guess,’ I commented.
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